The Cab of the Sleeping Horse eBook

Harleston took another look around, saw no one, and
calmly pocketed the envelope. Then, after noting
the number of the cab, No. 333, he gathered up the
lines, whipped the ends about the box, and chirped
to the horse to proceed.

The horse promptly obeyed; turned west on Massachusetts
Avenue, and backed up to his accustomed stand in Dupont
Circle as neatly as though his driver were directing
him.

Harleston watched the proceeding from the corner of
Eighteenth Street: after which he resumed his
way to his apartment in the Collingwood.

A sleepy elevator boy tried to put him off at the
fourth floor, and he had some trouble in convincing
the lad that the sixth was his floor. In fact,
Harleston’s mind being occupied with the recent
affair, he would have let himself be put off at the
fourth floor, if he had not happened to notice the
large gilt numbers on the glass panel of the door opposite
the elevator. The bright light shining through
this panel caught his eye, and he wondered indifferently
that it should be burning at such an hour.

Subsequently he understood the light in No. 401; but
then it was too late. Had he been delayed ten
seconds, or had he gotten off at the fourth floor,
he would have—. However, I anticipate;
or rather I speculate on what would have happened
under hypothetical conditions—­which is
fatuous in the extreme; hypothetical conditions never
are existent facts.

Harleston, having gained his apartment, leisurely
removed from his pockets the handkerchief, the roses,
and the envelope, and placed them on the library table.
With the same leisureliness, he removed his light
top-coat and his hat and hung them in the closet.
Returning to the library, he chose a cigarette, tapped
it on the back of his hand, struck a match, and carefully
passed the flame across the tip. After several
puffs, taken with conscious deliberation, he sat down
and took up the handkerchief.

This was Harleston’s way: to delay deliberately
the gratification of his curiosity, so as to keep
it always under control. An important letter—­where
haste was not an essential—­was unopened
for a while; his morning newspaper he would let lie
untouched beside his plate for sufficiently long to
check his natural inclination to glance hastily over
the headlines of the first page. In everything
he tried by self-imposed curbs to teach himself poise
and patience and a quiet mind. He had been at
it for years. By now he had himself well in hand;
though, being exceedingly impetuous by nature, he
occasionally broke over.

His course in this instance was typical—­the
more so, indeed, since he had broken over and lost
his poise only that afternoon. He wanted to know
what was inside that blank envelope. He was persuaded
it contained that which would either solve the mystery
of the cab, or would in itself lead on to a greater
mystery. In either event, a most interesting
document lay within his reach—­and he took
up the handkerchief. Discipline! The curb
must be maintained.